


Blood Calling

by ConsultingWriter



Series: A Balanced Trinity [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Cabin!Lock, Cabinlock - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Fluff, Gore, M/M, Mystery, Obsession, Polygamy, Rimming, Smut, Stalker, Tattoos, Threesome - M/M/M, Violence, more tags to come, polygamous 'marrige', though its not really a marrige because they aren't legally recognized in Britain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriter/pseuds/ConsultingWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, Martin, and Sherlock are settling perfectly into their love filled domestic bliss, at least until an unknown threat comes out of the shadows and has their eyes set on a special prize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Lovely Morning and an Eerie Calling

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Lazy Morning Loving, and some of the things written in there are important (such as their tattoos) and will be brought up here, so I suggest you at least skim that (as it is largely porn, it isn't necessary to read all of it).
> 
> This is being posted after midnight and it is unbeta'd, so sorry for any mistakes, but feel free to drop a line--a review ;)--and point anything you catch out and I'll go fix them.

The ringing of his alarm pulled John from his sleep and he slapped a hand down on the clock grumpily. He wasn’t even supposed to work today, but Sarah had called late last night and asked and with all the times that he’d skipped out of work on her with little (or no, depending on Sherlock) notice he’d felt more than a little obligated to fill in. His mood didn’t improve upon realizing the sheets on either side of him were cold. John had expected the space on the right (the side closest to the door) to be empty because even though his sleeping habits had improved greatly, Sherlock still never slept past four in the morning, but Martin—who was placed between John’s body and the wall (the safest place for him to be, as an intruder would have to get through both Sherlock and John to reach the ginger haired pilot)—should’ve been in bed beside him.

With a huff he rolled onto his side and pushed himself to sit up. Today was not going to be his day, he could already tell. With that thought he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood, staring at the periodic table on the wall blankly for a beat, before shuffling out of the room and towards the kitchen.

He paused in the door way, a soft look settling over his face at the scene before him. Martin sat on the counter, skinny, trouserless legs wrapped loosely around Sherlock’s slim hips as their mouths moved gracefully together, Martin’s hands wound tightly into inky locks while the Consulting Detective’s hands cradled the smaller man’s waist. Both their eyes where shut and John took a lusty moment to take in the sight of mouths working against each other and the sporadic flash of tongue when lips parted slightly before coming back together—a smoldering heat bubbling in his lower belly, causing his already semi-prominent morning erection to stir to life a little more—before letting out a low, playful wolf-whistle. He chuckled when Martin pulled away from Sherlock, turning wide eyes on John.

“Morning lovers,” John called as he made his way to his teapot—and it was his and only his, seeing as it was a gift from Mrs. Hudson and neither Sherlock nor Martin could make decent tea to save their lives.

“Good morning John,” Sherlock said smoothly, reaching out to brush his fingers down the Doctor’s bare chest gently.

“Morning John,” Martin mumbled a moment after, face still red from his embarrassment at being caught in such a position. John wondered briefly if Martin would ever not be embarrassed by being caught in sexual circumstances; he hoped not, John did so adore Martin’s blushing skin and cute stuttering.  

John chuckled and leaned over to brush his lips across a high, blush –painted cheekbone.

“When is your next flight?” he inquired, lips brushing skin as he spoke; causing Martin to shudder and try to edge his face away from John’s with a grumbled “Ticklish.”

“I’ll need to leave in an hour to catch the train.”

“Should just let Mycroft send a car,” Sherlock huffed irritably, and Martin rolled his eyes.

“It’s fine ‘Lock,” he groaned; they’d already had this conversation several times, every time he had to catch a morning train to Fitton, in fact. “I don’t mind taking the train,” that, and knowing how much money and power Sherlock’s family had made him uncomfortable.

Sherlock stormed away and flung himself onto the couch, rolling to face the back in full sulk mode. John and Martin glanced at each other and shared an eye roll.

John leaned against the counter and slowly sipped from his mug as he watched the interaction, hiding his smile with the rim and ignoring the half hard bulge in his loose pajama bottoms. When he drained the last bit he sat the cup in the sink and moved to wrap his arms around the airline Captain’s hips. Pushing his lips to the taller man’s ear, he whispered lowly “I’ve got to take a shower, why don’t you come join me, save a little time, hm?”

The red-head colored immediately but leaned back against his chest and nodded.

John rumbled out a chuckle and pushed Martin up towards the bathroom and followed. Catching Sherlock just as he turned his head to glance over his shoulder “Where are you going?” he asked, brows furrowed.

John shrugged “To take a shower, some of us have to go earn money.”

Sherlock moved to rise from the couch but John held up a hand “Uh-uh, the shower’s not big enough for all three of us, you’re busy sulking, and you’ve already showered this morning.”

The detective’s lip jutted out and John moved towards him swiftly, leaning in and nipping at the pouting lip and giving it a quick suck before moving back and dashing up the stairs, tossing a wink over his shoulder.

When he reached the bathroom, the water was running and Martin’s nightwear lay scattered on the floor. With a grin he pulled the curtain open and stepped in behind the ginger and pulling him flush against his chest.

With a smooth roll of his hips, John slid his erection against the ginger’s plump bottom, causing the other male to groan and push back.

John hummed as the water slid down the pilot’s strong back and down to his arse, decreasing the friction between them for an easier slide. He leaned his head in to bury his nose in the curling ginger locks at the base of the other man’s skull—placing open mouthed kisses to the back of his neck, sucking every once in a while at the cervical axis that knotted out so far from the rest of his vertebrae—as he rocked his hips forward, wanting so badly to just push into the pliant body held so closely to his but knowing that he didn’t have the time to appropriately prep the other man.

“Martin,” the doctor groaned raggedly, starting to lose his smooth rhythm; he slid a hand from its grip on the taller man’s hip around to his chest and upwards to pinch and pull at already pebbled nipples before slipping downwards to wrap around the long, slender cock that jutted out obscenely from a patch of ginger curls.

“John, John, John, John, John!” Martin chanted as his hips canted forward, pushing his aching length into the tight, slick, tunnel that the doctor’s fist created while the blonde’s own erection ground into the crevice of his arse-cheeks. He whimpered as the heat in his stomach rose and his muscles tightened, perched helplessly on the brink of his own orgasm but unable to fall over as the doctor’s hand tightened at the base of his prick.

John moaned out Martin’s name as he felt himself peak and rolled his hips once more into the part of the pilot’s round globes before releasing and loosening his grip on the other’s erection and twisted his wrist and sliding his hand to the tip to brush a thumb over the leaking slit.

The pilot whined as the doctor’s warm release hit his skin, hip hitching in an uncontrollable jerk and moaned in relief as the grip on his cock loosened, only to bite back a shrill scream when the hand around him slid up, a calloused thumb running over his sensitive head. With one last buck of his hips he was coming apart, spilling his seed over himself and the hand that fisted him in its grip.

Slowly he sagged back against the strong chest behind him as his body stopped shaking.

“Well,” John stated in amusement as he stroked the airline Captain’s pale, slightly freckled stomach with his clean hand.

“Yeah,” Martin agreed breathlessly before straightening up to wash himself; scooting completely under the water’s spray to allow the other man some room.

 

John huffed out a laugh and moved under the cooling water, scrubbing himself perfunctory, taking no more time than necessary while the younger male did the same.  

* * *

 

When John came back down the stairs, completely dressed, he quickly turned back around and took a deep inhale through his nose, trying to calm the stirring in his lower abdomen at the sight he’d just walked in on. Sherlock sat on the couch, he’d thrown back and legs splayed wide as Martin—wrapped in John’s dressing gown—knelt in between them, head bobbing up and down on the flushed prick between his lips, the detective’s long musicians fingers tangled tightly in his hair. Taking one last breath he turned around and began to gather his things, trying to ignore his lovers.

His knees trembled at Sherlock’s baritone voice moaning and calling out his pleasure but the ex-army Captain continued his task, only turning once he knew they were finished.

John checked his pockets one last time for his wallet, keys, and phone before moving over to the couch to give Sherlock, who was still sprawled out and panting with his pajama bottoms around his ankles, a brief good bye kiss, snaking out his tongue to swipe at that full bottom lip before pulling away “I’ll be out at lunch, text me if you get a case.”

He turned to Martin and caught his lips in a kiss as well, doing the same as before; he held back the groan that wanted to escape his throat as his caught the taste of Sherlock’s release on the other man’s mouth “Call me when you land, okay?” 

Martin caught his lips in a return kiss “Okay, after I’ve filed the return flight plans.”

 

John nodded and headed out the door.

* * *

 

Hanging up the white coat, John ran a hand through his hair and checked his watch, it was only ten and he was through with his patients for the day. Sarah had suckered him into staying until noon anyway to help with any walk-ins the clinic might have, telling him that if Sherlock needed him he was free to leave.

With a sigh John let his head fall onto his folded arms with a thump, part of his wished that a gruesome murder would turn up soon, or he might drive himself mad.  The vibration coming from his phone caused him to perk up momentarily, but he slumped again when it continued to vibrate. Not a text then, a call. His brows furrowed and he dug into his pocket, fishing it out and glancing at the screen. He paled when the name ‘Sherlock’ flashed at him from the screen.

“Sherlock?” John asked hesitantly, maybe it wasn’t the detective, but Greg or another Yarder.

“John,” Sherlock said sharply, causing the slight worry he felt to grow “I need you to meet me, now.”

“Of course, yes,” the doctor replied, standing from his chair and pulling on his leather jacket “Where?”

 

Sherlock relayed the address and John hung up, striding out of the clinic with no more than a wave to the receptionist as he pushed through the doors.

* * *

 

John barely heard Donovan’s snarky greeting as he ducked under the police tape and strode towards the house with something not unlike nervousness bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

He followed the trail of people milling around the house until he reached the bedroom. What his saw made a burning nauseous terror rise in the throat and his hand unconsciously moved to cover his lower stomach protectively as he stared at the blood covered wall in horror.

It didn’t even register when a long fingered hand settled on his shoulder and a tall familiar body moved to stand near inches from his. Nothing registered until he heard the low, soothing murmur of “Mycroft’s taking care of it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! Thanks for not killing me over that cliffhanger last chapter, hopefully this makes up for the wait.

Face pale, John turned to face Sherlock “How did this happen?” John whispered, hand coming up to encircle the detective’s pale wrist “Who did this?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly “I don’t know,” he admitted, turning away from his blonde husband’s face to look at the blood painted walls, hand tightening on the doctor’s shoulder as he did so “But I will find out, I promise you.”

John nodded solemnly and turned his attention back to the crime. There on the bed lay a strawberry-blonde haired woman whose once long hair was chopped short—the cut strands encircling her like a sacrificial circle—a small square on her chest had been expertly sliced open, the heart was missing.

The thing that made John feel the sickest, however, was not the brutal murder, but the message on the wall, written in blood.

_Roses are red_

_Violets are blue_

_One glance and you stole my heart_

_So I’m going to take yours too._

In between the second and third stanza, painted by a skillful, steady, knowing—as if the ‘artist’ had studied his subject thoroughly—stood a World War II airplane with the RAMC insignia on its wings. An exact replica of the one of the matching tattoo sets that John, Martin, and Sherlock had gotten to represent their union. John had never felt so sick in his life, his stomach churned and only the hand on his shoulder kept him from sinking to his knees and empting his stomach on right there in the middle of a crime scene.

He glared hatefully at the wall and straightened up, hand reaching into his pocket to curl around his phone. Mycroft would call him when he’d intercepted Martin. The doctor glanced at his watch and fought the urge to chew at his lip, Martin still had thirty more minutes before the train pulled into the station.

The ex-army Captain turned to his taller lover and looked the man straight in the eye “I want whoever did this gone, Sherlock. I want his arse skinned so that I can use his worthless hide as a throw-rug in the sitting room. Is that clrear?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but said responded to the demand with a serious “Yes, John,” and he meant it. No one would attack their pilot, Sherlock would see them dead by his hand before he let someone touch a hair on their ginger husband’s head but he knew he and Mycroft would have to work fast because John would see this bastard dead for even thinking about harming the self-conscious pilot and the John’s plan would be carried out before the Yard even had any idea who their suspect was.

 

* * *

 

Martin sighed and closed his eyes. He loved flying, he really did, and he loved MJN almost as much, they were like family but he that he could get a job as a pilot closer to London without flying for Mycroft—because if he thought Sherlock was loose with his money then Mycroft was absolutely careless with his and his brother-in-law tended to go overboard whenever Martin flew with him.

He leaned his head back against the seat and took a deep breath, wondering if he’d ever be able to tell Carolyn that he was no longer living in Fitton but in a London flat with his husbands, the famous duo Sherlock Holmes and John Watson—and if that wasn’t more unbelievable then him actually being not only a pilot, but a Captain, he didn’t know what was—but waved the thought away quickly; Carolyn would have his head if she found out he’d been lying to her for almost a year (and had _gotten away with it)_ , Douglas, oh the teasing would be merciless (“Why Martin, secret relationships? Very school-girl of you; have you written their names in hearts with gel-pens on all your notebooks yet, or are you still working on that?”) and Arthur, the thought of his reaction caused a chill to run down Martin’s spine. He would want to celebrate. With cake. Probably cake that he had made himself. The airline Captain shuddered and firmly made up his mind. The crew of MJN were never finding out about his marriage. Ever.

Suddenly a sense of dread washed over the redhead and he stiffened in his seat. Someone was watching. He relaxed slowly and covertly swept his gaze around the train car like Sherlock had taught him to but he couldn’t find the source.

A part small part of him slumped; sometimes he didn’t think he would ever get the hang of being the lover of two dangerous men with a dangerous job. Sherlock and John often worried that if their enemies found out about Martin—who was quite defenseless compared to his husbands—then he would be a target. Sherlock had spent many an evening slowly building up the pilot’s detective skills while John spent his off days teaching Martin basic hand-to-hand combat but Martin wasn’t very good at either.

Afterwards, at the end of the night when they would crawl into their bed John would rub the small of Martin’s back and Sherlock would reach over the blonde doctor and run his long musician’s fingers through his red curls and whisper that he would get it in time but Martin didn’t really believe either of them when they said it half the time. Martin that Sherlock blew everyone around him out of the water when comparing intelligence but John’s thinking skills were nothing to laugh at either but Martin, well, Martin often wondered how he ended up with such smart men. John said that it would just take time for Martin to learn, said that it had taken him a bit to get used to Sherlock’s lifestyle as well—and he’d been in the army before they met—but Martin sometimes had his doubts, of course John learned and got used to it; it certainly didn’t take the blonde man seven times to get his medical license, unlike Martin himself and his CPL.  

Letting his head nestle back against the seat he decided that the strange feeling had just been his imagination and to calm his nerves, the ginger haired Captain mentally went over his emergency plans and began making a list on what could be improved.

The small freckled wouldn’t find out until reaching Fitton that he wouldn’t be flying that day.

 

* * *

 

 

When Martin climbed out of the cab in the Fitton airfield parking lot his brows furrowed. He knew who owned the car that sat idling in front of the airfield’s passenger center. The door swung open when Martin got close enough and the silver tip of an umbrella tapped the ground before Mycroft Holmes smoothly pulled himself out of the car.

“I’m afraid you won’t be flying today Martin, arrangements with your….charming boss…have already been made.” With that the British Government gestured for Martin to get in and the car. The pilot climbed in without a word, skin pale. Mycroft would never interfere with his work like this unless something was wrong.

“What’s happened?” his voice cracked but he couldn’t bring himself to care as visions of terrible accidents involving his lovers ran through his head. He didn’t feel the comforting arm settle around his waist and pull him into the older man’s side but he did feel the rumble as the British Government spoke.

“They are fine Martin, unfortunately a threat has come up and you will not be leaving London until its been..” neutralized was on the tip of his tongue but the older Holmes swallowed it down, yes, this mysterious shadow would deeply regret threatening this strange creature who made his brother and Doctor Watson so happy, this odd man who Mycroft himself had a soft spot for, but he could not bring himself to let Martin know of the Holmes families harsh ways of dealing with threats to their loved ones “taken care of.”

The Captain nodded, unsure of what to say but stayed quiet, going over his flight manuals in his head to keep himself busy. It would be a long trip back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to ask that you not kill me now as well. Fear not! Things will actually pick up in the next chapter, which I hope to get up fairling soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this took longer then I said it would and I'm sorry, but life sucks sometimes (which is something I'm sure everyone already knew). Hope you like it.

John watched as Sherlock scoured the house from top to bottom digging through everything from the victim’s jewelry box to the kitchen cabinet drawers, looking for something—anything—that would give him to clue to who the killer; a clue to who was threatening their beloved pilot.

A ruckus from outside drew the Doctor’s attention away from the Detective—who was now slithering on his stomach under the kitchen table—and to the house’s front door.

“Hey, this is a crime scene! You can’t just barge in here! I’ll have you arrested!” It was Donovan and whomever she was yelling at was clearly not listening to her.

The door swung open and two black-suited men marched in. Huddled between them was a familiar ginger and John felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. If Martin was with him and Sherlock, then he was safe, or as safe as one could be outside of a government safe house.

His jaw tightened when he took in Martin’s frightened gaze and slightly shaking hands. Fuck it, fuck secrecy; Martin was in danger right now, and none of their secrecy and sneaking around had prevented it. John uncrossed his arms from their position at his chest and held them open to his lovely Captain.

The shorter male was off like a shot and into John’s embrace before the Doctor could even blink. He buried his head in Martin’s hair, enclosing him tightly in his embrace.

“What’s going on John?” Martin whispered burrowing his head farther into John’s neck.

John stroked a hand down Martin’s back but didn’t respond.

“Sherlock do you ha—” Lestrade paused and John could tell he was giving him a look, but the Doctor couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Who is this?” The DI asked, deceptively calm—he and Mycroft were alike like that, they always, _always,_ needed to know what Sherlock was doing and who he was doing it with. John wondered if it was something left over from the days of Sherlock’s addiction, the days that any new person he was seen with could be a new supplier.

John didn’t answer the question either, prepared to follow Sherlock’s lead. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Consulting Detective push himself off of the ground.

“He’s with me.” The dark haired man replied and wandered into the sitting area that conjoined with the kitchen.

“Yeah, I can see that, but who. Is. He?” the DI repeated, staring the Consultant down.

Sherlock huffed a long ‘why-must-you-be-so-stupid’ sigh but said no more.

Martin pulled away from John’s grip and turned to face the DI, sticking out a hand “Ma-Martin Crieff, h-hello.”

Lestrade ignored the outstretched hand and John felt his jaw tighten, he hated it when people were rude to Martin—it bruised the pilot’s already abysmal self-esteem quite a bit—or dismissed him because of his nervousness. One of these days he was going to serious beat someone for it.

He breathed out a heavy breath through his nose instead, trying to calm himself down instead. After he was feeling a bit calmer, John forcefully cleared his throat to catch the DI’s attention.  When the older man turned his eyes to the Doctor, John pointed looked at Martin’s still outstretched hand.

“I believe he just introduced himself, DI Lestrade, perhaps you should pay a bit more attention,” he paused for a moment before adding in a sharp barb “if you did you might not need Sherlock so often.”

The look that flashed across the DI’s face would’ve made John feel unbelievably guilty had the man not so rudely slighted Martin. He clenched his jaw and refused to apologize.

When the DI shifted his attention to the pilot, Martin took it as his cue to reintroduce himself, taking comfort in John’s strong form behind him, only blushing lightly at the base of his neck as he managed to force out “Martin Crieff, _Captain_ Martin Crieff.”  

The DI gave him a long, intense look, ignoring the Captain’s extended hand. The longer the DI stared the higher the blush crept up the ginger man’s neck.

Finally Lestrade blinked, breaking his stare, and opened his mouth “And what are you doing here, Mr. Crieff?”

John frowned, “Captain Crieff,” he corrected the other man irritably, quickly growing tired of the Detective’s attitude towards the younger man.

The grey haired man turned his open eyed stare to the soldier, which John returned unflinchingly as he stroked a hand down the stranger’s arm, curling his tan fingers around the slim, pale digits of the man’s outstretched hand and brought it back into the pair of them, brushing a kiss across the back of it before dropping it gently, letting it fall against the freckled haired man’s side.

Lestrade clenched his jaw at John’s tone but repeated his question “What are you doing at a crime scene, _Captain_ Crieff?” He stressed the title, almost sarcastically, giving John a pointed look, as if to tell him he was humoring the Doctor.

Martin blushed and rubbed at the back of his neck “I’m not, um, I-I’m not sure, actually.”

“You don’t know,” The Inspector asked slowly “You show up at a crime scene, muscle your way in to _cuddle”_ he spit the word out, glaring accusingly at John “with a _married man_ and you don’t know why you’re here, really?”

Martin stuttered, not sure what to say as he tried to bury himself back into John’s stronger body, frightened by the almost hateful look the other man was giving him.

“He’s here,” John grit out “Because Sherlock and I asked him to come.”

“I have told you and Sherlock time and time again that, despite what you may think, you are invited to my crime scenes, at my digression, they are not your playgrounds, and if you do not tell me who is right now, _I will have him arrested_ for entering a crime scene illegally.”

John tensed, a snarl building at the back of his throat before Sherlock stepped in front of both of them protectively, unnatural eyes glowering forcefully at the older man, forcing him to take a step back.

“He is here because I need him to be and you don’t need any other explanation n then that,” he spun on his heel and started to herd his lovers out the door but paused in the doorway to look over his shoulder “And Lestrade? If you ever threaten him again, there won’t be anywhere you can hide from me.”

He was out of the door before the DI could respond.

* * *

 

Martin curled into John’s chair and gripped his cup of tea—John insisted on weaning him off coffee, at least while he was at home—tightly in his hands.

“Sherlock?” he questioned quietly, shifting in the chair uncomfortably, neither the Consulting Detective nor John had told him why they’d had Mycroft retrieve him from Fitton yet.

The dark haired man didn’t answer but instead made his way to the chair—stepping over the coffee table to do so—and stooped low to brush a kiss across his forehead.

“Sherlock please,” the pilot begged.

The Detective closed his eyes and sighed, he couldn’t say no to Martin’s sad eyes—he knew that he and John couldn’t protect Martin from this completely anyway, no matter how hard they tried—before  caressing the ginger curls “I….Martin, John and I have reason to believe that you are in danger, at the crime scene we were at earlier there was, the victim...the murderer used her blood write a poem on the wall and…” he couldn’t finish his sentence but his hand brushing over the tattoo on his stomach gave it away.

“Me?” Martin squeaked in fear, hands shaking as they came up to close around Sherlock’s own.

“I will find him Martin, if it is the last thing I do, I will find him.”

The pilot’s arms came up to twist around the brunette’s neck, clinging to the man for comfort.

“Which it won’t be,” John added, coming through the door and brushing a hand up and down the genius’s hunched back “not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Okay,” Martin whispered, unwinding one arm from the Detective’s neck to wrap around one of John’s hands, trying to draw comfort from the stable Doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about Lestrade, but I promise next chapter he'll apologize. Review and give me a kudos if you liked it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, its mostly smut (most likely bad smut, at that) but at least its something, right? I promise not to make everyone wait so long for the next chapter (which will have actual plot in it, I hope).
> 
> Un-beta'd.

His brain was whirring, metaphorical cogs clicking as he tried to piece the puzzle together. No, it was more than a puzzle—it was the most important crime he’d ever had to solve, because solving the murder meant finding out who was after his beloved pilot.  

The dark haired genius tugged at his hair in frustration and flopped onto his side with a huff.  His eyes snapped open when a whimpering moan broke through his mental haze. His mouth could’ve watered at the delicious sight in front of him.

John sat in the genius’s metal framed chair; legs spread marginally and slumped slightly in the craddle of cushions. Martin—who was wearing one of John’s old oversized army shirts, which slid off of one of the pilot’s shoulders and was long enough to drape completely over his buttocks, hiding his pale, freckled skin from the detective’s roaming gaze—was kneeling over the doctor’s lap, hips raising up before dropping back down into the blonde’s lap. It was slow and unhurried— they’d obviously already each had an orgasm, taking the edge of need off— and Martin’s hands held tightly to John’s strong shoulders; fingers clenching and unclenching, leaving  red lines on the tanned flesh.

Sherlock watched as the ginger rode the blonde’s cock, wishing he could watch the thick rod slid in and out of the plump arse that the genius knew stretched so perfectly around it. Just the thought made his own prick twitch in his tight trousers.

He unzipped his trousers, freeing the growing bulge, and slid to the floor on his knees as quietly as he could. Slowly he crawled across the floor, watching the smooth, punch-drunk ecstasy, that twisted John’s face.

Kneeling in between John’s spread legs, Sherlock pushed the t-shirt up Martin’s arse; exposing his flexing buttocks and John’s cock and bollocks. Dropping the shirt that he’d pushed up, the dark haired male slipped his hands around Martin’s waist and began to gently pump the ginger’s prick, running a thumb over the weeping head.   As Martin let out a chocked gasp and bucked his hips upward, Sherlock ducked his head, and lightly nipped at John’s heavy sack.

Twin gasps filled the air as the ginger pilot tensed and the soldier’s bollocks drew up and away from Sherlock’s teasing lips.

The genius bit his lip, clamping down on the groan that wanted to escape; he could practically hear John emptying himself into Martin’s hungry hole.

Martin shifted himself up, pulling himself off of the doctor’s softening cock, but before he could shift too far Sherlock gently shoved him forward, forcing him against John’s chest; which was covered in the pilot’s own seed.

Before too much of the blonde’s come could seep from the ginger’s plump arse, Sherlock buried himself between the pale cheeks, tongue snaking out to lap out the sensitive rim. Martin gasped and bucked up before thrusting back against the probing muscle.

 

Sherlock groaned as he lapped at the redhead’s opening before spearing his tongue straight into the fluttering hole.

This was what truly got him hot, not fucking into either of his partners, or having John pound into him—although both of those acts where fantastic—but this, burying his face in between Martin’s artfully shaped cheeks. It was even better when John’s release was coating his tongue and sliding down his cheeks and chin. A small grin stretched at his lips as two large, tanned, hands slithered down a freckled back to cup the full cheeks and hold them apart, letting the consulting detective enjoy his prize.

Sherlock hummed, too distracted by the taste of his combined lovers to notice the way his own cock ached or the way his hips jerked, trying to find something solid to rut against, while the damp spot on his black briefs continued to grow.  

He moaned when John shifted his leg, moving it to give the dark haired male something to grind into as he chased his own release.

That was how Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade found them when he busted through the door of 221B Baker Street. John relaxed bonelessly in Sherlock’s chair, with that ginger tart—a ‘Captain,’ he remembered the mild mannered doctor telling him; yeah right, as if such a mousy little man were Captain of anything— collapsed against his chest, arms wrapped loosely around the blonde’s chest, while Sherlock was buried in between the little tart’s arse-cheeks, which were so ‘kindly’ being held apart by John.

The DI cleared his throat loudly and glared at the mess of limbs in the chair. He didn’t know what was going on with John and Sherlock, but he was going to find out.

He almost chocked on his tongue when Sherlock pulled away from his…task… to scowl at him; smears of what was obviously drying come coated the brunette’s face.

“What?” the Consulting Detective barked at him, startling the DI out of his state of shock.

He matched the genius’s and John’s aggravated looks with one of his own—he didn’t know who the ginger tart that was so comfortably seated in the blonde’s lap was, but he was going to find out before the day was up, and he was slightly miffed that John and Sherlock were fooling around with a stranger in the first place (weren’t they supposed to be married?)—and spoke through tight lips.

“There’s been another body.”

Sherlock’s spine straightened and his scowl dropped, face morphing into a blank, yet oddly stony look, “Where?”

He nodded when Lestrade rattled off the address “We’ll be there in thirty minutes, touch _absolutely nothing_ until we do.”

Lestrade nodded once and spun on his heel, not wanting to observe the scene in front of him any longer than he had to.

Sherlock nimbly pushed himself from the floor, penis completely flaccid, and held out a hand to help Martin stand before holding out his other to pull John up.

Together the three of them walked up the stairs and into the bathroom. It would be a tight squeeze, but they knew that bathing together was the best way to keep each other, Martin especially, calm and focused on the problem at hand.

The new crime scene, and whatever unsavory clue Martin’s stalker had left this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure it has mistakes, but its midnight and I'm tired, so I'll fix them in the morning.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore! **Warning** this is kind of gory! 
> 
> Also, its unedited because its late and my friend didn't want to beta it because of the gore, so.

The body was male and blonde, pudgy in the waist and short. Middle-aged and single, the man had not had a relationship in years, and judging by the callouses on his hands, he was a Doctor. None of this caught Sherlock’s attention past his customary sweep of the room. Instead his eyes were immediately drawn to the poem on the wall. The words where once again written in the blood of the victim. What was strange, however, was the lack of picture to accompany them.

_Did you not like my present?_

_I did it for you._

_But I guess if I hung around a doctor and a detective,_

_I’d be bored by me too._

Sherlock studied the words carefully, fear solidifying coldly in the pit of his stomach. Someone was really after Martin. His Martin. It had been almost an abstract concept before, a shadow looming in the distance, close enough to see, but far enough to feel safe, to feel like he and John could protect Martin. But, as he glanced around the room once again, the gravity of the situation hit him like a freight train. Someone was out to get Martin, someone delusional enough to kill and leave his callings—his _romantic poems_ —to Martin in the fresh blood of his victims’.

The sound of his name broke him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Sherlock,” John said with a certain degree of forced calmness. The doctor had shed his jacket and wrapped it tightly around Martin’s thin shoulders, leaving him just inside the doorway—tucked beside a bookcase that blocked his view of the left side of the room—where both he and Sherlock could see the pilot, but out of the way of the blood and gore that had been scattered about the room.

The detective trotted over and turned a clinical eye to the victim for the first time. The man was laid in a funeral position. Eyes closed, arms crossed over the chest, and legs pushed firmly together, showing a lack of sexual degradation. It would’ve looked the spitting image of ‘laid to rest in peace’ if not for his nakedness and one more very alarming detail.  His testicles were gone.

“They were removed while he was still alive, Sherlock, bleeding from the wound, as far as I can tell, is what killed him.”

Looking at the body more closely, the genius could tell something was very wrong with it. There was too much blood pooled on the bed to be just from the wound to his groin, even with it being a fatal injury, Carefully, so as not to disrupt any other evidence that laid on the victim’s flesh, Sherlock shifted the man onto his side. His stomach clenched at what his saw. With a controlled movement he tilted his head down, gesturing for John to take a look. The doctor sucked in a quick, shocked, breath at what his saw.

The victim’s back had been sliced to the quick from the bottom of his neck to his pelvic bone and his spine had been—judging by the damage to the remaining bones—forcefully ripped from the man’s body.

The doctor swallowed around the lump in his throat and pulled his eyes away from the carnage that had been dealt upon the nameless man’s body. He almost wished he hadn’t when he spotted what was on the wall opposite of the bed.

He was suddenly eternally grateful that he’d tucked Martin into the corner created by the large bookcase, because on the adjacent wall another poem was scrawled.

_It seems that the soldier was not so brave,_

_‘Twas his cowardice that sent him to an early grave,_

_It seems like the Doctor was not that strong,_

_False boast of his skill was where he went wrong._

John gently nudged Sherlock and lifted a slightly shaking hand to point at the new message. At the bottom, sitting prettily on a desk, was the missing spinal cord. Half of the vertebrae had been cleaned of blood and tissue and were stacked carefully together to form a macabre vase. The stacked vertebra had artistically arranged flowers carefully placed where the man’s nerves once resided. The other half of the vertebrae where placed in a circle around the ‘vase’ in a placement that almost looked like the killer was making an offering to his intended.

Lestrade’s grating—well, just then it was grating, and it would continue to be so until the man got over whatever vendetta he held against Martin—voice pulled him away from his observations, John could tell it had done the same to Sherlock as well.

“Well Sherlock, what have you got?” The man demanded impatiently, arms crossed.

If this were a normal case, Sherlock would huff and insult the DI’s intelligence; as it was, Sherlock didn’t have the time or the patience to play games with the useless Yarders.

“He’s sending a message,” Sherlock informed, eyes still roving over the new poem, gears clicking furiously as he tried to work the meaning out.

“What kind of message, and to who?”

“Yeah Freak, if you’re so smart, why don’t you go ahead and tell us.” Sally Donovan piped in, sneering at the dark haired genius.

Sherlock didn’t even waste the time to roll his eyes “This message, this one right here, is a warning, one aimed at someone who is both a soldier and a doctor,” he left the ending open and stared for a minute at the Yarder’s who stared back in confusion.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Sherlock spat “It’s aimed at John, the murder is calling him out, the victim suffered because of the murder’s rage at John. He sought to make John weak and cowardly, but because he couldn’t actually do it to John, he picked a substitute, a short, blonde, doctor.”

The confusion remained, on most faces but Donovan’s face clouded with rage “How dare you make it all about you and your little pet, a man has been murdered and your saying it’s all about you, huh Freak?”

Sherlock snarled “Use that tiny brain incased inside your cranium for once in your impossibly dull life, Donovan, the man uses ‘soldier’ first, to refer to his subject, and he refers to his ‘cowardice’ for which ‘spineless’ is a synonym of, and he ripped out this man’s spine! Next he refers to a ‘doctor’ we can assume that he’s still talking about the same subject, as it’s still in the same verse instead of a new one in which he talks about man boasting, ‘skill’ and ‘strenght’ can be interchanged when talking about ‘strengths and weaknesses’ but it’s also possible his referring to the man’s actual muscle mass, to weaken the man he’s cut off his testicles, which are often viewed as a symbol of a man’s strength and virility,”

“So, doctor and soldier, well, that narrows it down quite a bit, but there are still plenty of soldiers-cum-doctors and vise-versa in Britain, how can we narrow it down more? Oh, I know!” Sherlock exclaimed, face brightening up in false delight “We can take a look at _this_ ,” he pointed to the first poem “which indicates being upstaged by both a detective and a doctor, how many soldier-doctors are spotted out with detectives, hm? Oh yes! One! Taking also, into consideration that the target of this murder’s obsession lives with John and I, I think we have a winner, don’t you?”

The rant had more scathing sarcasm than anything that had ever tumbled out of Sherlock’s mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to care one whit, instead all of his attention was focused on Martin’s horrified face.  

“J-J-John!” Martin cried and the doctor shoved, in an unapologetically rude fashion through the block formed by Donovan and Lestrade to reach out to the shaking pilot.

He closed his arms tightly around the thin ginger and the man collapsed against him fully, like a puppet who’d had its strings cut. John stroked his back and murmured soft words, telling the distraught young man that it was okay, that it wasn’t his fault, that John himself was fine.

“And who,” Donovan interrupted with an ugly look “Are you, exactly?”

 Sherlock let out a disgusted sound “The priorities of the small minds at the Yard never cease to amaze me, instead of focusing on the killer you’re focusing on Martin.”

“And who is Martin to you, Sherlock, I think, since apparently you think he’s apparently the ‘obsession’ of our murderer we have a right to know.”

“Thank you ever _so_ much for your _concern_ , Lestrade,” Sherlock stressed sarcastically “Martin is John and mine’s lover, husband, if you will,” he trotted over to his huddling lovers and gently shifted Martin and slightly lifting the pilot’s shirt, exposing the top of  the tattoo that resided there.

“I don’t _think_ he’s the murderer’s obsession, I know.”

Lestrade stood, gob-smacked, as the bloodied picture from the first crime scene sat flashed through his mind, there, cleanly replicated and beautifully colored, on the ginger tart’s—John’s and Sherlock’s husband, he snorted to himself in something dangerously close to a judgmental disgust—lower stomach. Or, he supposed, if Sherlock was right, the bloodied picture was a replication of the admittedly brilliant tattoo that branded ‘Martin’s’ pale skin. He could feel a headache building behind his eyes the more he thought about the murders and their connection to this ginger haired stranger and, as a consequence, their connection to the genius detective and his loyal partner.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review please!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this isn't very long, nor does it have John, Sherlock, or Martin in it, and I'm sorry. I'm going to try to get another chapter posted this week, one that's fluffy to make up for all the weirdness that happened in this chapter and the las . 
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning!** : This chapter is weird, and creepy, and I'm sorry.

Hands tightened in to white-knuckled grips as the ginger pilot walked past him, flashing a quick smile as he snuggled farther into the short blonde’s jacket and leaned into the detective’s embrace. That little bitch! How dare he spurn him! Even after all the effort he went through to deliver those flowers, all the thought that went into those poems!

He took a calming breath; no, he needed to stay calm, Martin just didn’t realize how good they could be together yet. He was just too wrapped up in the entrapping’s of the posh detective and all his money and his little tag along army doctor. He would fix that soon though, very soon; and then Martin would be his and his alone.

With one last look after the beautiful pilot, he turned away and vanished into the crowd that had gathered around the police tape, vying like vultures for a peep at the body. A fissure of disgusted rage filtered through him; his work wasn’t meant to be gawked at by such lowly creatures. It was only meant to be viewed by his beloved Martin.

He shut the door to his flat behind him with a firm hand. He scowled when he looked over his messy sitting room and the to-go containers that littered the coffee tables. A new house. That’s what he needed. Something big and spacious to prove that he could take care of the pilots wants and needs. The precious ginger would never need to work again, would never have to fly for that ungrateful old bitch who snapped and yelled and his lovely pilot.

Maybe she could be his next offering?

No. Too close to Martin, he would surely fall into the suspect pool if his boss turned up dead. His beautiful pilot wouldn’t be able to handle the pressure of being a suspect.

The man nodded to himself and walked to his bedroom, shucking his suit jacket and tie as he went and kicking off his shoes in the hall way.

He fell onto the bed with a tired sigh and turned to face the wall. It was covered in pictures of Martin, taken in different places and at different angels. They were all from a distance but the pilot’s face was the focus in all of them and was quite clear, even as the other details where blurred.

The man felt a stirring in his lower gut as he focused on one picture. The ginger was alone, leaning against the side of his plane—GERTI, the man recalled—with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. The morning sun was rising, bathing the older man in a beautiful light as a slight breeze tugged at his fiery curls.

The pit of his stomach stirred and clenched and he slid a hand over his chest and belly and into the waistline of his trousers He used the other hand to pop the button open the flick the zipper down. His hand slipped into his pants to grip himself firmly, eyes roaming over the other pictures in his collection before focusing on one of his more recent.

It was taken outside of 221B; camera zoomed in as far as it could go and focused on the window of the flat. The window had been open, assumably, to let the breeze in, and all the light were on as soft music wafted into the outside world. Martin was shirtless and his arms where wrapped around the doctor’s neck as the danced slowly in the sitting room. The man had burned the doctor’s face out of the picture and had taped his own visage over the black-rimmed hole.

He imagined his own hands resting on the pilot’s back, one slipping down every once in a while to stroke or grab a round cheek. He bet the ginger would giggle cutely and slap at his head lightly, demanding jokingly that he ‘stop that and ‘behave’. He would listen to the pilot with a fond look, knowing that he could always continue his touching in their bedroom.

He felt it bubbling up and he desperately shoved his other hand into his pants to join the first. Rolling his bollocks with one and gripping his cock with the other, he imagined they were a pair of larger, long-fingered, and pale hands. His orgasms rolled over him in strong waves and he groaned, not bothering to stifle himself.

“Til Tuesday, love,” he whispered, staring softly at the ginger’s picture. He could wait that long to see his beloved again, especially when the ginger would be flying him and some co-workers to Italy to finalize a few business deals.  

As he drifted off to sleep, he thought about the pilot’s soothing voice whispering gentle words—words of praise, of love—in his ear. Yes, Martin Crieff would be his.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!   
> Wrote this while I should be studying for my Japanese final (and why I thought taking a challenging language like Japanese to learn, I will never know), so if it's got any typos, let me know and I'll fix them when I can.   
> Don't forget to review and let me know what you think!

Sherlock kissed John goodbye and stepped out of the way to let Martin take his place. John hadn’t wanted to go into the surgery, and Sherlock didn’t particularly want him to go either, but they both knew that the best thing for the moment was to act like they weren’t bothered by the stalker’s blatant threats; Sherlock was certain it would lure the unknown assailant into a false sense of power and security, which would make it easier to catch him. 

John’s lips lingered on Martin’s a beat longer than they had on Sherlock’s own mouth, but the detective simply felt a warm glow burst in his chest instead of the burning jealousy that he’d been worried about consuming him when he and John had decided that Martin was the piece they didn’t know had been missing. Sherlock would admit, if only to himself, that he’d been a little leery of having a relationship with both Martin and John; poisonous thoughts had spun around in his mind for the first few weeks: what if John loved Martin more? What if Martin stole John from him? Or vice versa? What if John or Martin realized that most people would find their relationship wrong and disgusting? What if they let that drive them apart? Away from Sherlock?

He felt stupid, looking back on it now, but he was, for the first time in his life, desperately glad that he’d been wrong. 

John gave him one last shaky smile before he turned, closing the door to 221 B behind him, and made his way down the stairs. Sherlock only moved from his position by when he heard the door at the bottom of the stairs open and close decisively behind his blonde lover. 

“It appears,” he hummed casually, wrapping arms loosely around Martin’s waist “that we have the day to ourselves,” he nipped at the ginger’s ear “whatever shall we do?”

The pilot giggled and squirmed and Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed slightly, satisfied to know that Martin still felt safe enough with him to wiggle and giggle as if a dark cloud of fear weren’t hanging over 221B. 

He bit back a groan when the ginger’s squirming turned into a mischievous rocking of his arse back into Sherlock’s pelvis. He smirked and playfully rocked his hips forward, letting his half-hard erection grind into Martin’s plump buttocks. 

After a moment he pulled away and spun the airplane Captain in his arms, one hand coming up to brush a stray ginger curl out of the way. 

“Dance with me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Martin’s lips. The ginger raised an eyebrow and glanced towards the kitchen where Sherlock’s latest experiment was sprawled, abandoned, out over the kitchen table.

Sherlock felt the corner of his lip twitch into a small grin and he pressed a kiss to his lover’s nose. He supposed he could be doing his experiment, and he knew that the Sherlock Holmes of the past would be doing just that, ignoring anyone that was around and their emotional state and inner turmoil, but that man was gone; he’d been sweetly killed by the gently guiding hands of John Watson and Martin Crieff. Sherlock didn’t think he ever had or ever would be more grateful for anything than having these two men in his life. 

Instead of trying to articulate his thoughts, he pressed another kiss against the corner of the other man’s mouth with a mumbled “It can wait until later.”

Martin smiled, looped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, and nodded. Sherlock returned his smile and maneuvered the two of them over to John’s radio; uncurling one of his hands from its place on Martin’s hip to flip through the channels, trying to find a proper classical station. 

When a slow piano movement flowed out of the speakers, Sherlock readjusted his grip on the ginger and urged the Captain to do the same. When they were in the proper position, Sherlock started them on a waltz, spinning them around the sitting room and steering them around the furniture. 

The song drew to an end slowly, and Sherlock ended their dance as well. Before he could say anything, however, Martin untangled their hands and cupped a hand around the back of his neck; pulling him down for a kiss. 

“I love you,” the ginger whispered when they parted and Sherlock recaptured his lips in response. 

Their kiss was brought to an abrupt stop when the sound of several feet pounding up the stair reached their ears. 

The door was harshly pushed open, and Sherlock scowled as he caught sight of who was on the other side. Lestrade and his team.

“Drugs bust,” the DI barked out angrily and moved to settle himself on Sherlock’s couch. 

The consulting detective held out his hand in a silent demand and Lestrade spun on his heel to glare at him. 

“What?” the grey haired man barked again, and Sherlock sneered in return.

“You’re search warrant; I’m assuming you have on.”

The DI growled and reached into his jacket to pull a folded document out. Sherlock scanned it quickly; it was official, it had been signed and everything. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock snipped “but I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t take such liberties with my couch, you are not guests in my home and I will not allow you to act like such; you will conduct your search, and when you find nothing, I will be sending a bill to NSY for property damage to replace anything that your lackeys will undoubtedly damage during this pointless raid.”

Grim satisfaction curled in his gut at Lestrade’s sour look and the feeling doubled when Lestrade snapped at Anderson to be careful or it would be coming out of his paycheck. 

“Now,” Sherlock asked as he settled into his own chair, pulling Martin to sit on the arm, “Why don’t you tell me what you’re actually looking for, Lestrade?” Because if he didn’t have an extremely good reason to come bursting through his door and making Martin uncomfortable, ‘friend’ or not, Sherlock would have his badge before the week was out. 

The DI’s jaw clenched and unclenched “We’re looking for evidence, if the stalker really is after your little _lover_ ,” he spat the word out like it was poison “Might have something that we can trace back to him.”

Sherlock opened his mouth the refute Lestrade’s logic, but Martin beat him to the punch.

“Then why didn’t you just ask?” the ginger burst out, glaring at the man angrily; no trace of his usual gentle and timid demeanor in his thunderous expression, “I don’t care who you work for, you don’t have the right to come into my home and snoop through my things because there’s a small chance that I might have something that could lead you to the stalker!

I am the victim but you are treating me like I am the criminal, and I shouldn’t have to put up with it!”

Sherlock hummed out his agreement “Martin is absolutely right, he shouldn’t have to deal with it, and he’s not; remove your team from my flat, Lestrade or I will be taking this up with your superiors,” he shot the man a glare “in fact, I might let my _brother_ take it up with your superiors.”

 Lestrade paled, he knew exactly who Mycroft Holmes was. 

“Alright guys,” he called “Time to pack it up.” 

Grumbles filled the air, but where silenced with a stern glare. 

“And Lestrade,” Sherlock called after him as he was headed up the last him his team “Feel free to come back once you’ve gotten over your little hang up with Martin!” 

The DI didn’t say anything but closed the door behind him forcefully and Sherlock frowned and then snorted, Lestrade would come around eventually. 

With a swift move he pulled Martin into his lap and clicked the telly on with the remote, hopefully something that could distract the ginger was on; the darker haired man could tell the ‘drugs bust’ had shaken the pilot. 

He was in luck; the History Channel was playing a documentary on the invention and innovation of aeroplanes. The consulting detective smiled as the pilot curled into him, attention focused raptly on the telly. 

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the ginger’s cheek and curled an arm around his waist to hold him tightly to his body, it wasn’t the way he planned to spend the hours they had until John got home, but it was more than fine; he was willing to call it almost perfect.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feel free to follow me on tumblr at NoSwordsForLittleDragons.tumblr.com


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